angel lust
by Droce
Summary: She'd died, and he had her, now- she was his to take. Her last word was his name, her last breath was his; there was still more to be done. Dimitri/Claire, necrophilia, dead Claire, depraved Dimitri, oh my! Smut.


Considerable- no, that was the wrong word. Affable? No. Still the wrong word.  
Gentle, was the word she'd used. Claire liked to call him gentle. No. She liked to tease him- Dimitri, you're a gentle giant. So tall, you should be more scary, less stuttering and ambling. She'd smirked at him, too, right after saying it. Sometimes, he could swear she knew what she was doing.  
She got him red in the face and hot in the pants, he was sure she knew that, too.  
In the back of his mind, standing next to her corpse, breathing ragged and hands fumbling at his button and zipper, he wondered if she'd still use the same word for him.

He realized too late what would happen- at least, she died in his arms, mouthing and speaking her last words, voice breaking and fading between sobs and gasps.  
_Dimitri, you're so nice. Dimitri, I love you, you're my best friend- tell Hershel I love him. I'm so sorry- Dimitri, oh, Dimitri, I don't want to die, Dimitri, Dimitri._ Her last word was his name, and, somewhere, he felt oddly privileged for the moment he was still, before trying to revive her, pumping her chest twice, attempting mouth-to mouth once. He gave up in less than a minute, and it started to hit home.  
She'd died.  
Claire, beautiful, beloved, darling Claire.  
Dead.

Between gasping, himself, and sobbing, he put her down, hands to his head, cursed the world, cursed his life, existence, and questioned everything to ever be.  
He didn't touch her, then- he was too numb to look at her. Shrapnel in her stomach, her ribs, cuts on her cheek, arms, legs. She bled out- no, more precisely, she bled out on _him_. He closed her eyes, kissed her mouth, her cheeks, her collarbone and chest.  
The blood on his mouth. Frantic CPR. It wasn't a complete lie- when he kissed her, she was still warm, at least. That made it a little more bearable.

He broke into the morgue later. Guilty conscience. Not finishing what he'd started and what he was itching to do. He didn't remember much after they took her to the hospital and declared her dead. Vaguely, he remembered driving home, too-fast, and crying, screaming. Sleeping.  
He slept, and then he broke into the morgue. He didn't know what to think of the fact that the staff remembered him.  
He'd have to stop visiting the morgue for morbid fascination. Claire'd jokingly called him a necrophiliac for visiting so often, to his embarrassment- and now, for once, she'd be right. Under the worst possible circumstances, of course, but she was right, too much for comfort.  
Maybe he was more of a sociopath than he'd previously thought he was. Too good at lying to people to their faces. Or maybe he was just paranoid. Paranoid was the better solution. He'd ask his therapist, later.

The second he was in the room her body was in, he closed and locked the door. Thank god for shit budgets and turning-locks, they saved his life. Hastily moving some side table in front of the door- a precaution he figured might be too much, but, in this case, it was never too much. He contemplated, briefly, putting on the leather gloves he'd brought as extra precaution, and decided against it. The condom was definite. He wouldn't be able to bullshit his way out of that one, if it came to- no, maybe he could, if he paid off the staff or begged. No, no, it was still a bad idea. Starting on reading the tags of the body bags, he grimaced at each name until it was hers, and tore open the bag, frantic, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of her.  
She could have been sleeping. He was careful, bringing her body to the centre table, shushing her like it mattered, kissing her lips, cheeks, foreheads, shoulders. Taking a precautionary glance around the room, he shrugged out of his coat, putting it over the window on the door- nobody would notice, not yet.

Soft spoken- no, that wasn't the right term. Hushful? Mild. No. The word she'd used was reserved. Dimitri liked to keep to himself, you never talk about yourself, or your family, but maybe about your cats, Dimitri, you should tell me more about you.  
We've known eachother for so long, Dimitri, she'd smiled when she said this, brushed his hair from his cheek.  
He had to wonder what she'd say now, while he was tugging his pants and briefs lower on his hips, if she'd use the same words for him.

Just shy of actually getting his clothes more than a centimetre down, he had a fairly genius idea, he liked to think, of unbuttoning his shirt. Get closer to her, warm her with his heat.  
...He'dve made the pun, if he were in the mood for puns. His chest was smooth, hairless for the scars that were there. Childhood accidents with boiling water, on multiple occasions, on multiple parts of his body. It was irrelevant now, but it made all the easier to be against her.

He remembered, before pulling his pants down, to hell with every fucking detail of this, that, as a dead woman- he'd need- other means to make this easier. Digging in his pockets, he found a few packets, ('travel sized,' 'sample-sized,' _what was the difference?_) of whatever lubricants he'd found around various sex shops however long before, tearing them open, being careful with them on his fingers. He was careful, spreading her legs, hands shaking as, too tentatively, he pressed along her sex. Naming off what he knew.

No matter what people wanted to say about him, he wasn't a virgin. Not really. He'd touched women before, it was just- different. Both for the fact it was Claire, and that Claire was also dead. Carefully pressing a finger in, he moved, slowly, before adding a second, adding more lubrication- a third, and he was just getting hasty, adding the rest of the lubrication, wrappers in his pockets, giving a little more, before pulling his fingers out and, without really thinking about it- or, more for the sake of his own perversion, sucking on them, getting the taste of her, even if it was mostly something slimy and gross from the lubricant- he didn't care. The whole process, he avoided looking at her, embarrassed.  
Now, now he tugged his pants down, and looked away from her- even now, he was bashful, tearing open a condom wrapper with his teeth, rolling it on. He couldn't bullshit his way out of leaving his semen in the corpse of the woman he loved- that'd be an insult to everyone involved, especially Claire. Hershel could be watching, for all he cared.

This was him, winning the fight he'd fought for far too long.

Licking his lips, he leaned forward, kissed her cold mouth, hand under the small of her back, supporting her as he slid in, tentatively, moving slowly- if anything, he could boast that he'd had all the restraint in the world. Rather than supporting himself by his arm, he made to hug her, both arms around her back, clumsily positioning her arms to be less awkward, her legs in such her knees would be up, or some attempt at being wrapped around _him_.  
Once he'd settled into a slow rhythm, he'd gotten a little more frantic, trying to move faster, before throwing in the towel, for lack of a better term, moving as his body wanted him, too, holding her tight, muttering in Russian, sweet nothings, kissing her mouth, cold and unresponsive, kissing her throat, her collarbone, her chest, her breasts. He didn't bite, wouldn't bite, any and all marks would just incriminate him- but oh, he was fine with this.

He was more than fine with this.

This was perfect.

He was almost ashamed to admit that he barely lasted five minutes, he clock on the wall told him so much- but it was all the better for him getting out of the room faster. Gasping for air, pressing his last kisses to her, smoothing her hair back, he couldn't think of anything else he'dve rather done in this world. He took off, tied the condom he'd had, thrown that and the wrappers from earlier in the bin, wrapped in paper-towels, put his pants back on, his belt. Wiping down his face, the table with disinfectant, more paper towels- wiping off Claire, cleaning her, gently, carefully. More paper towels to hide his evidence.  
The last thing he did was re-button his shirt, make himself cry a little more again- it wasn't all that hard, if he had to be honest- and get his coat. Put his barricade table back where he found it. Get his coat.

Walk out of the room, sniffling, thanking the morgue staff, who gave him their deepest condolences. Sitting in his car, starting the engine and driving- when he checked his watch, he'd been in and out of there in a half hour- he didn't know what to feel.  
If he had to be brutally honest, he felt on top of everything. On top of the world, king of mankind- both for the fact he'd had Claire, and then the entire aspect that he'd had Claire- as a corpse. It was wrong and dirty and so, so, so wrong, and so, so fucked up- and the thought of it made him giddy.  
He didn't feel bad. Not yet. It was too early to feel bad about this- he wanted to enjoy the high while it lasted. That was what you did with pot, that's what one should do with... everything, he supposed. He liked to think, if anything, Claire would have accepted this as it were and let him have her, if she were able to consent. It wasn't rape- there was no clear-cut lack or giving of consent. It wasn't rape, just- what it was.

He had to laugh, to himself, taking off his shoes as he got into his house.

He had to wonder, as he hung up his coat and looked at himself in the mirror.

What kind of _fucked-up_ was he now?

As he fully realized and processed everything that'd happened- he wanted to scream.

* * *

**Author's note;** I'm beginning to think all I write now is messed up-porn and all I post here is just  
smut as a whole. Whatever.

_yolo_


End file.
